by submission | Feb 20, 2015 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
They heard the sound of the approaching vehicle and looked at each other.
“That can’t be,” said John Hemington, “the rover’s been gone for three weeks. It’s programmed to stay gone for two months.”
He looked quizzically at Daniel Hepford, communication expert.
Hepford looked out the viewport. The wind was blowing at its usually one hundred miles per hour, blowing debris and dirt all over Cantza 3. The filth in the air was so dense that the rover’s searchlight could not cut through it.
“It is damned peculiar,” replied Hepford. The rover was programmed to survey the alien planet’s landscape, then return when its batteries needed recharging. They shouldn’t have needed a recharge for quite some time.
“You think there’s a malfunction?”
Hepford nodded. “Has to be,” he said.
He looked at the computer in front of him and punched in command codes for the rover. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What?”
“The rover….it’s not responding.”
Hemington stood and walked to Hepford’s side and looked at the display. “May I?” he asked. Hepford nodded and let Hemington sit. Hemington punched a few buttons and the console displayed new information. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“What?”
“The command codes…they’ve been overwritten,” he said.
Hepford looked confused. “But…we’re the only people on this planet,” he said.
“Apparently not,” replied Hemington as he punched a few more buttons. Another screen displayed and, on it, he saw a language that he did not understand.
“What the….?”
Outside, the rover struck the building. The entire building shook. Both men ran to the window and looked out. The wind and debris hid most everything, but the rover was so close now that they could see.
Both men gasped.
On the rover, wrapped around it like an octopus, a grayish-skinned creature, rode. As they watched, its arm, which more closely resembled that of a squid than an octopus, lashed out and struck the window. A thick, gooey mucus covered the window where the arm fell.
“My God!” Hepford shouted. “Do you realize what that is?”
Hemington looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
Before Hepford could reply, another wet slapping arm struck the window.
“It’s a Lamfir?”
“A Lamfir?” asked Hemington said. Then, slowly, an expression of realization crossed his face. A Lamfir. A mystical space creature rumored to travel across the void of space. It attached itself to a spacecraft and traveled across the void. Once the creature made landfall on a planet, its sole purpose was to consume any and all organic life.
With the exception of a small spaceport a few hundred miles to the south of them, Hemington and Hepford were all the organic life on Cantza 3.
“Oh my God!” Hemington said. “Get on the radio and contact the spaceport.”
Hepford ran to the radio just as another wet slap smacked the window. A long crack appeared in the glass.
“Space port 1,” Hepford said into the microphone. “Come in, spaceport 1!”
No reply came.
Then, when Hepford switched to the auxiliary channel, he heard the slow ting of the automated distress call.
The Lamfir had been there already. It had headed in the direction of their base and, along the way, come across the rover. It had, somehow, taken control of the rover, attached itself and gotten a ride back to base.
Another wet slap cracked the window further.
Hepford looked at Hemington. Both men were afraid.
Hepford turned to the radio again, grabbed the microphone, and shouted: “S.O.S. To anyone near Cantza 3. We need immediate assistance. We are under attack!”
Then, the window broke inward.
The Lamfir slid inside.
Later, when it was done, it lay dormant on the floor, awaiting the rescue ship.
by submission | Feb 18, 2015 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
“The universe is holographic? Surely you’re joking.”
“I am not joking, Dr. Feynstein. But I did not say THE universe. I said YOUR universe. Your universe is a simulation. Pay attention. There is not much time.”
The young man appeared jittery in the flickering light. Feynstein glanced at the overhead fluorescent fixture.
“OK. You’ve obviously wandered into the wrong building. This is Physics. Science fiction would be in English, across the quad.” Offering a campus map, “Or maybe you’re looking for Psychology? Student Counseling?”
“Shake my hand, professor,” the man said, extending it across the desk.
“I’m not touching you.” Pointing the map toward the open doorway, “Please leave. Now.”
“Just shake it. Then if you want me to leave I will do so immediately.”
The man went out of focus momentarily. An intriguing thought crossed Feynstein’s mind. He attempted to touch the man’s hand with the map, but it went right through. He swiped through the hand several more times.
“What the– You’re a hologram.” Slumping into his chair, “And not a very good one.”
“A crude avatar, so we could talk. For the record, Dr. Feynstein, would you agree that whatever flaws there are in the simulation of your universe, they have not interfered with the development of human civilization?”
“Huh?” Looking around his office, “Look, I don’t know how you’re projecting a hologram, but that doesn’t prove we’re in a holographic universe.”
Pointing to a laptop, “One of your colleagues is remote observing through the Gran Telescopio in the Canary Islands. Bring up the VPN.”
Feynstein logged in.
“What do you see?”
“WR 104. Could go supernova at any time. Dr. Gambel is trying to determine if the gamma ray burst is likely to hit Earth.”
“If Earth took a direct hit, what effect would it have on life?”
“It would cause a mass extinction.”
“Well then, fortunately for you, I am erasing WR 104 from the simulation.”
The star disappeared, leaving its larger binary companion strangely unaffected. Feynstein could neither speak nor breathe.
Finally, he gasped, “The other star, make it disappear.”
It disappeared.
“You’re just messing with the video feed.”
“In a few hours it will be dark enough here for me to take you outside and make more stars disappear, or entire galaxies and constellations, but I think you already know I am telling the truth.”
The phone rang and seconds later people ran past the door in the direction of Dr. Gambel’s office.
A graduate student poked his head in, said, “Dr. Gambel says he needs you right away,” and joined the others.
“So, I am a hologram?” Looking at a picture on his desk, “My wife and daughter? Everyone on Earth? Why?”
“You and they are what passes for ordinary matter according to the laws of your physics. But you are in a simulated universe.”
“But why did you do this? And why tell me?”
“You have always been skeptical that dark matter and dark energy make up 96 percent of the universe. You’re right, of course. I botched some of the physics.”
“But…”
“And you wrote a paper on the possibility that your universe is holographic, although I know you were not serious, Dr. Feynstein. You were just poking holes in quantum theory.”
“But…”
“And now you’re about to begin that Holometer study. It could ruin everything.”
“WHY?”
“You stood out from the others, Dr. Feynstein. You deserve to know the truth before I wrap up the experiment.”
Another intriguing thought crossed Feynstein’s mind. And again he was correct.
“My graduate thesis in anthropology depends on this simulation not being discovered by its subjects.”
by submission | Feb 17, 2015 | Story |
Author : Cliff Cymrot
I once thought living forever was a gift. We all did. At first it was the rich and affluent that benefited from nanobots (bots); those impossibly complex micro-machines. They cured disease, maintained proper hormone levels, repaired damage, even healed wounds so fast that blood was kept from bleeding out (heaven knows I’ve tried). Finally, they repaired telomeres; those ends of chromosomes that gets shorter with each cell division which is the cause for aging. Immortality, achieved at the tiny hands of mechanical bots coursing through the veins of humans. After several hundred years the technology was produced at a price everyone could afford, unfortunately. Bots were then passed from mother to child, reaching all of humanity.
(I lift the shovel)
At first no one realized how society would be drastically changed. After accidents no longer killed people, or time, society cast off currency, crime, and violence. There was no need for such things anymore. After 500 years of living, who cared about petty arguing, theft, or acquiring as-seen-on-TV rubbish. The world was heaven. No more death, no more suffering. This was gratefully accepted, at first…
(I shovel some dirt)
It didn’t take long, perhaps the first thousand years or so, before immortality began wearing on the individual. Life was empty without the prospect of change. That’s when the rebellion occurred. No one really remembers the exact date but it did start somewhere in France. Someone decided living for 800 years wasn’t that appealing anymore and stepped in front of a car. Their broken body lay there lifeless, long enough for those around to see breathing had ceased. And then it happened, the body convulsed, the sound of bones realigning and lungs filling with air emanated from the human. They were alive. Amazingly enough, instead of this causing reassurance, fear spread like wildfire. For the first time in eons humans realized something precious was taken from them, freedom.
(I continue shoveling)
Soon, tens of thousands attempted all manner of scenarios from jumping off the side of buildings to ingesting household cleaners. Each time the person recovered, with less time between the cessation of bodily activities and normal functionality. This continued until the rebellion terminated. Nanotechnology is remarkably resilient and adaptive. The bots saw our attempts at self-injury as something that needed to be fixed and inhibited that part of our gray matter that desired such foolishness. We became unable to end the game we created. Every time someone tried, they were immediately restrained from continuing in thought, their body would just not listen and even the desire would dissipate. Though bots can’t stop all desire, I’m proof of that.
(I watch as dirt piles up)
We are prisoners of heaven. No one has attempted to cease human function in ages. But I know we are all thinking it. I know the topic on the tip of everyone’s tongue. I know the secret desire of every last human being even if we can’t act on it. I also know the answer. See, the bots have a simple code they live by, to protect their human from harm. So no one is able to harm themselves if the thought is to end their life. However, they seem completely unable to stop someone else from doing it. And that’s when I came up with a way to save humanity.
(I pat down the dirt. One place for the head, another for the rest of the body. The bots can’t fix that).
One down, 10 billion to go. Good thing I have all the time in the world.
by submission | Feb 14, 2015 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell
I’m gonna make it, I think to myself as my ship streaks past the Asteroid Belt. Only a few small colonies in the outer solar system. Soon I’ll be safely in the Oort Cloud. It’s a good place to lay low until the heat’s off. Probably need to hang out there for a couple of standard years.
I look back at my cargo. Quark matter. The sample I acquired is no larger in volume than a human cell yet it masses nearly 1,000 kilograms. In an era when everyone has a matter compiler, the theft of material objects is a rare and basically unnecessary crime. Quark matter is an exception. The microscopic quantity I obtained is worth half-a-trillion credits.
An alarm sounds. Proximity sensor. I am being pursued. Martian Republic police, most likely. I’ve planned for this eventually. I put a lot of money into outfitting my ship with a custom-built quantum impeller drive. I smile and tap a few controls. The pursuing ship recedes behind me. Thirty seconds later, the other ship is once again gaining on me. Not MR police, then. Their ships aren’t this fast. A Solar Alliance cruiser? I increase speed.
Another alarm. Time dilation alert. Quantum impulsion drive is kind of like the “warp drive” in ancient science fiction. Your ship is surrounded by a bubble of spacetime and it’s the bubble, not your ship per se, that moves through space. As a result, you don’t feel any acceleration. But QI drive can’t shield your ship — or you — from the relativistic effects of time dilation. I’m at 25 percent of the speed of light. At that speed, for every minute that passes for a relatively stationary observer, only 58 seconds pass for me. By virtue of my velocity, I’m moving more slowly through time.
The other ship starts closing in on me. Definitely Solar Alliance. He must have been in orbit around Mars to have caught up to me this quickly. The SA are famous for their unwavering persistence when chasing a suspect. I’m afraid this particular officer will have to remember me as the one that got away. I push my ship faster. As I pass 0.867c the time dilation readout moves to 2.00679. Time is passing twice as fast in the outside universe as it is in my quantum impulse field. Again, the police ship momentarily falls behind but quickly catches up and starts closing in again.
It’s time to put an end to this game of cat and mouse. I set my ship to continuous acceleration. At 0.999c my time dilation readout stands at 22.36627. For every minute that passes back at the research facility on Mars from which I stole my cargo, only 2.682 seconds pass within my ship. Impossibly, my pursuer is managing to keep up with me.
At 0.999999999935c, more than a day passes outside my ship for every tick of the second hand inside it. And still the cop is after me. My ship begins to shudder violently. I keep pushing the speed. The ship’s velocity maxes out at 0.999999999999999998c. After a subjective minute of travel at that speed, over 1,000 years have passed on the outside. Would my cargo be of any value to anyone now even if I managed to make a getaway? Does humanity as I knew it even still exist?
In the moments before my ship disintegrates around me, my sensor display shows the pursuing ship is also coming apart. What justice did he hope to achieve after this long? Did he leave behind a family? Why did he do it?
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Carter Blake woke screaming into sweat soaked sheets again. It had been over a year, but the memories were still crystal clear and relentless; from the calm serenity of an afternoon patrol to the searing heat, the sudden impact and as his vision cleared, the view past the freshly cauterized stump where his right arm had been to the dusty blue sky.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, feeling the polished hardwood beneath his artificial feet. He scratched idly at the point where the real flesh of his thigh faded into the artificial and then stood, not missing the arthritic pain that had plagued his knees before the event.
Clasping his hands behind his back, one real, one a poor facsimile he pulled his arms back and up behind him, feeling the strain ease in his shoulders, then twisted hard left and right once to feel the satisfying pop as the pressure released in his spine.
He was parched.
The lights followed him from the bedroom into the eat-in kitchen, glowing dimly to guide him while respecting that it was still the middle of the night.
Carter fished through the glasses on the counter by the sink and found one with only water in it, which he dumped and refilled from the tap before downing it in several continuous gulps. He’d started drinking right handed again, now that he’d relearned how to hold things without breaking them.
From the kitchen he had a view across the empty living room to the full length window overlooking the city. The fog outside and the dim light inside turned the glass into a soft focused mirror, and he looked at himself. Turning sideways he flexed and posed like he’d done back in the day trying to impress the girls on the beach, but he didn’t recognize the man flexing back at him. He jumped, reflexively putting his arms up to cushion the blow as he reached the ceiling without even trying.
His legs below mid-thigh were artificial, some kind of bio-mechanical hybrid grafted onto what was left of his own body. His arm too was different, and although he’d stood here, in the early hours of countless sleepless nights watching the freak he was reflected in the glass, he still couldn’t rationalize his defect. Still couldn’t fully accept the man he saw in front of him. They had warned him there may be some rejection, but assured him he would adjust in time. How much time, he wondered.
Carter turned back to the kitchen and, fishing a bottle of bourbon from the counter and his Desert Eagle from the back of the cutlery drawer, sat himself down at the kitchen table beside the wirephone.
He opened the bourbon and took a generous drink straight from the bottle before lifting the phone off the cradle and dialing the Veterans hospital.
The phone rang twice before a young woman answered. “Worcestershire Memorial, good evening Sergeant Blake, trouble sleeping?”
Carter cradled the phone gingerly against his left ear and took a few deep breaths before replying.
“Please send someone quickly, there’s been an accident.”
Without waiting for a reply, he replaced the handset on the cradle, and with his artificial arm picked up the massive handgun, pushed the barrel into the fleshy crook of his elbow and pulled the trigger, shearing the limb off none to cleanly at the joint.
He considered that he should have perhaps tied off the arm first, but he expected the VA emergency response unit would be there quickly enough before the blood loss was too severe.
Then they would make him whole again, and this time rejection wouldn’t be a problem.
